


Limbo

by glasgow_blue



Category: The Lord of the Rings RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-01-03
Updated: 2005-01-03
Packaged: 2018-09-15 07:31:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9225014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glasgow_blue/pseuds/glasgow_blue





	

For [](http://lotrpschallenge.livejournal.com/profile)[**lotrpschallenge**](http://lotrpschallenge.livejournal.com/) #28: Half-Open doors.

I am not entirely convinced that it fits the parameters of the challenge. Nor am I certain that the cadence isn't just plain old screwy.

 

 

Title: Limbo  
Pairing: None  
Rating: G  
Word Count: 350  
Disclaimer: I. Am. Making. This. Shit. Up.  
Archive: Please ask.

 

Dom has a recurring dream about doors.

Hundreds of them. Thousands; in an infinite hallway. When life is going well, they're open wide and he can see all the way to eternity, clear as day.

When life sucks, they slam one by one until the noise bounces around inside his skull and rattles his teeth. He wakes up claustrophobic with an aching jaw. He wakes sweaty and chanting that old saying his mum offers up on occasion. _God never closes a door without opening a window._ He throws his own windows wide and gulps the night air until his breath returns. Until the curtains billow and the moon sets. Until his knuckles are no longer white.

Lately, all the doors have been half-open and swaying in a breeze that carries sound and smell--and color, too, sometimes. There are glimpses of people and places and John Lennon is singing _In my life, I loved you more_. There are bits of other sounds, too. Billy's laugh. Viggo rattling paint tubes and chewing on brushes. Alarm clocks. Mobiles ringing. Waves rolling in to shore. Birds calling. Trees answering.

It's beautiful and peaceful in some ways. Frustrating as hell in others. If he could just walk through the doors. Or peek around them, even. If he could just taste that breeze. If he could just ask Billy "what's so damn funny?".

Are the bloody doors half-open or half-closed? Is that his agent on the phone? His mum? The girl from the bar last week?

The birds speak in poems--bits and snips of Ginsberg and Byron. A line from a Green Day song _wake me up when September ends_. Yeats, slouching toward Bethlehem. The trees answer in riddles that rhyme. Sometimes they speak with one voice; sometimes in a perfect chorus.

He wakes confused and rumpled, having slept on his stomach with pillows over his head and blankets shoved onto the floor in the night. And all day long--in makeup, between takes, at lunch, in the car--he wonders what secrets the doors are keeping. Or if they're keeping any at all.

with thanks to the wienerdogs for their placement of hyphens


End file.
